


crawling toward death, my arms are broken

by ma1war3



Category: DreamSMP, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Character Death, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Floris | Fundy-centric, Fox Hybrid Floris | Fundy, Gen, Graphic Description, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Transphobia, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Trans Floris | Fundy, Wilbur Soot is Floris | Fundy's Parent, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-22 02:14:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30031473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ma1war3/pseuds/ma1war3
Summary: You're so goddamned lonely, so goddamned unable to handle the ocean roar in your ears when you're aloneYou tell yourself that the ash in your lungs is as good as a kiss goodnight, and you write poems about the smoke tendrils whispering off your lipsAnd you panic when you realize what just happenedAnd you panic when you realize what just happened because the man who picked up your notebook, he's a cruel manWith eyes like rough cut pine and sunsetsAnd there's another bladeAnd there's a bottle of pills, a fifth of vodka, a messy bed.You're tired, so very tired.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/Floris | Fundy (Past), Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Past)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 53





	crawling toward death, my arms are broken

**Author's Note:**

> Summary is a modified version of like blood from a stone - Old Gray
> 
> This is not talking about real people, this is solely about the character Fundy, who I head-canon to be a trans man. Please don't be a dick in the comments, I really don't have the energy to deal with that.

_Drip, drip, drip_ _  
_  
He lets his hand rest within the sink for a few moments, lukewarm water rippling around the minute movements of his body. It’s not enough, nowhere near the temperature he prefers to soak in, but he can’t afford to waste warm water when every breath of his rattles in his throat and wheezes through his teeth, when every sigh is laced with nicotine and grey smoke. He needs it for morning tea, or warm rags to rest against his rotten throat. Sometimes, he thinks life was greater under the tyranny of Dream. But he’s always forced to banish it before it takes root, the bloody visage of a late general haunting the crevices of his mind.  
  
 _Drip, drip, drip_ _  
_  
He pulls his hand from the sink, affected and unaffected at the control he must put into such a simple action. His world warbles around him, vision blurring as he grips the sides of the sink and stares- squints at the dust caked mirror, cracked and filthy. Bites his tongue, counts _Één, Twee, Drie_ , digs his nails further into the cast iron of his equally filthy sink. He can see himself in the mirror again, drops his head when the realization registers, and lets himself slump, tension evaporating from his body with well-practiced ease.  
He should’ve drank less, should’ve done anything but grab one of his many bottles of whatever various vodka he’d had exported in- Yeni Raki, now that he looked- and a cigarette from his pocket. He should’ve tucked the cigarette back into its carton, should’ve screwed the lid of the bottle back on, should’ve gone for a walk, or to sleep, should’ve done anything but what he had.  
But he was a tired man, and he barely ever did what he should’ve.  
His vision blurred again, and he fumbled for his coat pocket, hastily grabbing a cigarette and bringing it to rest between his teeth as he flicked open his lighter, beaten down and barely containing anymore oil, rolling his thumb against the mechanical bit irritably, the flame lasting longer than a short flicker on the fifth try. The first drag felt like wet paper and everything awful about cigarettes, but he felt relief nonetheless, and his eyes focused enough to be forced close when he exhaled.  
It always hurt a bit more, the harsh stuttering coughs that appeared like hiccups every time he smoked, and the smoke burned all the way down as he dragged on the cigarette heavily, suffocating himself with the grey smoke until they disappeared.  
His vision was blurry again- when was it not, really-and his eyes stung, though it was from the dry clouds that had filled the small space of his bathroom, no longer the alcohol that flowed through his veins, nor the blood pooling on the edge of the sink and dripping onto his boxers.  
Right.  
He inhales, shifting his weight from one leg to another to appease the ache in his hips, and rubs his thumb against one of the splotches of blood that had pooled on the rim.  
He was bleeding.  
  
He had stripped off his coat and shirt and pants at some point, left himself in his boxers and skin, and let his hands touch what he could not for the life of him look at. Unthinkingly raked his nails- Claws, he used to call them. Back when he was considered a pet before a child and a child before a human- across his rib-cage and the dips where it was just flat enough to be- be what it should be. Red marks had been drawn across his chest, up to where his collarbone melted into his shoulders and in between swells that had made bile rise in his throat as his shaky hands accidentally brushed the flesh, always too large or crooked or in the way to properly avoid it. With each repeated drag came trails of deeper red, raised skin turning to puckered flesh and then further to trailing vermillion, until steady rivulets made their way down his form, spreading out beneath him in conquest as his torn flesh sung.  
Even now, with coagulated blood building beneath his nails- new layers created with every thoughtless swipe over his skin- he merely watched, tapped what was left of his cigarette against the sink a few times, releasing his half assed hold on the bud to instead crush it with his thumb, too nerve-dead from previous times to feel the sparking flames die against his flesh and fur.  
He watches the bud sizzle beneath his thumb for a few moments, and then a few moments more, and straightens his back with a tired groan. He’s so tired, as his spine pops and muscles twitch and his hips ache and his knees flared with pain he shouldn’t feel at twenty-one. But that was one of the many things he shouldn’t feel at twenty-one, and he didn’t bother to grab his stupid little list he had torn up, thrown away, and pieced together again.  
  
He wiped at his eyes, rubbed his nose, and grabbed the already open and three-quarter drained bottle for another pathetic attempt of drowning himself above water. He had almost succeeded last time, his nose clogged with bitter smoke and his head- pulsing with the ebb and flow of an imaginary ocean he dreamed his mother dying in. But his body had gotten the better of him, and he’d choked before he could truly go. He had been to slow to get to any toilet or sink, and he’d vomited nothing but vodka and a few pulverized slices of orange, and his pants had thoroughly soaked through as he gasped for air and dreamed about a life where he died until he had gotten tired of being tired and stumbled his way home to fall asleep in his own bed.  
He’s slightly too weak to put the necessary amount of effort into shoving the neck of the bottle into his throat and keeping it there, but he’s still shitfaced no matter how much of it dribbles down his chin and soaks his fur and his teeth clack painfully on the glass rim, and then his tongue catches on his canine, and he shudders- leans against the wall behind him further and lets his mind sink into an ugly brine pool of self hatred, flesh moving and touching and being what it shouldn’t. **  
**He’s a shadow of his father, with his rough stubble and bloodshot eyes, hands grasping for his vices like he’s possessed. His eyes stay glued to the peeling wallpaper of his bathroom as his thoughts fester, bubbling and foaming. He doesn’t need a mirror for judgement upon his features, the slope of his snout and patchy fur as memorable as the blotchy, scarred flesh of his human visage. A useless shapeshifter, limited to the ugly expanse of his throat and face. The ~~daughter~~ son of the L’manburgs first president- a failure of a man, pushed out of his home and into insanity by those once his own- and a mysterious woman that disappeared long before he could remember.  
  
He was a traitor three times over. A pathetic little girl playing dress up. A child pretending to be something they weren’t, hoping that eventually, someone would look. But no one ever did, even when he tore down the walls of a nation Wilbur claimed was _his_ . Even when he set ablaze the red, white, yellow, and black of what remained of L’manburg, pledging his allegiance to a man masquerading as the devil whom he loved more than the father he disowned. Even when he revealed the _Spy’s Journal_ , his written symphony, his orchestra, no one looked. It wasn’t him they cared about, wasn’t him they were interested in. He was forever a forgotten supporting character, every attempt to be seen written off as childish or immature, every moment belittled into _My little champion!_ _  
_  
And along the years, he had convinced himself it was okay. That this was what he wanted, when Wilbur forgot about his fourteenth birthday and Uncle Tommy made fun of him the next day, when he cried so hard his head hurt for days after. He would whisper to himself that it was all okay, that he was happy, that _General Soot_ was busy, he shouldn’t be selfish. A hundred excuses for a man that only gave a shit about him when he was on his last knee, when Fundy was no longer his.  
And then that man died, and he convinced himself it was okay when Eret didn’t show up for his adoption, when he was met with silence for weeks after, abandoned by another without word or warning, like all those years ago.  
  
No one loved him, and that was okay. Hell, he didn’t even love himself, so tied up in memories, shadows, and soft flesh. How could anyone love him, with his inhales tinged with misery, his too-high voice, and shitty attempts at playing the guitar?  
His back burns at the uncomfortable bend, prickles traveling up his legs with a careless shift, bloody scrapes beginning to scab over, and for a moment it was wholly overwhelming. But the moment passed, and he took another swig of the near empty bottle, only to cringe and force himself into a sitting position as he swallowed wrongly and coughed, harsh breathless things. It tasted like a way to kill himself without the effort of a real attempt, and if he had another cigarette in his grasp he would claim it’s smoke a way to speed the process up. He wiped his palm against his lips messily, heaving in lungfuls of acrid air.  
  
Every prolonged second of his existence, of conscious thought and progression, made him feel like a fool, a spoiled man who never grew from his childhood, exaggerating every tale he reminisced to farm pity from an imagined audience. He didn’t deserve the far and few messages he would find addressed to him, nor the occasional pastry he would find at his rotted door, but he was greedy, a selfish fox, and he wished for more. For long conversations over communicators, for inside jokes and _I miss you’s_ , for confirmations of love. He wanted sleepovers and celebrations over nothing- those two person parties that he always saw Tommy and Tubbo throwing even when there was nothing to celebrate. He wanted camaraderie and trust, and someone to help him out of bed, out of his house, on the days he was too tired to even smoke. He wanted the unbreakable trust he saw in his Grandpa and Technoblade, knowing that the other would always have their back, would always be there for eachother.  
  
He had thought he found that in Dream, in between L’manbergs newly declared freedom and the Schlatt Administration. He thought Dream was _his_ , his forever, his unbreakable. But Dream was a liar, his apologies always revolving around George, until the man up and kissed him at the wedding and he was abandoned at the altar, a stupid little fox once again.  
He had been bitterly happy when he heard George was dethroned, Eret claiming their rightful place at the throne once again. It had no doubt been the end to their relationship, and Fundy had taken Schlatt up on his offer of drinking each other under the table that night.  
He had taken Schlatt up on his offer many nights after that, spilling stories and secrets to the equally overwhelmed hybrid, and eventually picking up his habit of smoking as well.  
He had thought Schlatt was his, for a while. Even as the administration fell apart, a right-hand-man killed at a festival he decorated, a vice president's betrayal, he stood next to the man with pride.  
But the man had died all the same, swinging a broken glass bottle over Fundy’s head as his eyes burned with hurt and betrayal, late nights of secrets and promises forgotten.  
Sometimes, he sits by Schlatt’s grave- rebuilt in the dead of night in a valley of flowers after Doomsday- and pours him a drink. Tells him of when he last ate, when he last talked to someone. Sometimes, he can’t remember, and sits in silence, pouring the drink over the grass and flowers when he leaves.  
  
Sometimes, he tries to tell him about how lonely he is, how he comes closer to joining Schlatt everyday, how he didn’t even know Ghostbur was gone until Eret messaged him about a failed resurrection. But the words always get stuck in his throat, and he ends up coughing awkwardly before lapsing into silence again.  
  
 _Drip, drip, drip_  
  
He tears his gaze away from the peeling wallpaper, turning his head to the slightly overfilled sink, a puddle steadily forming on the tiled floor, mixing with the blood that already laid there to turn it a watery pink.  
 _  
_He doesn’t think he’ll ever find someone like that, at least not again.  
  
He leans forward, pushing his coat further forward on the toilet, and grips the porcelain rim, hauling himself up to unsteady feet.  
  
It doesn’t matter, he’ll probably die soon.  
  
He takes one last swig of vodka, sighing heavily as it washes over his tongue and burns his throat, before setting it down on the slick surface of the sink. Unplugging it with one hand, the gurgles of draining water filling the otherwise silent room as his free hand hovers over the scabs littering his bloodied chest. Hovering, floating above soft flesh and sinewy muscle, his fingers twitch, and he drops his hand back to his side.  
  
He’s so tired.

**Author's Note:**

> An unpolished piece I left out but still wanted to share:
> 
> L'manburg was not a good time for Fundy, and he doesn't try to pretend it was. For all of Schlatt's flaws- and by Void, he had many- he was a hybrid above everything else, and the laws passed during his rule reflected that.  
> Fundy was considered a proper citizen, with rights as any human, and a newfound right to speak and disobey when told to sit and take a treat.


End file.
